About a maid I'll sing a song
by breathing is over-rated
Summary: Just a little thing I thought up. Rated because I've decided that parricide might be a bad thing which shouldn't be put in the minds of children...


**AN- **yep, you guessed it, I don't own Sherlock or the song(which belongs to Tom Lehrer, obviously)

I swear, I shouldn't be allowed to right these things...

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><p><span>About a maid I'll sing a song<span>

John had some strange interests. Even Sherlock, who was the very definition of 'strange interests', noticed that the good doctor had some pretty far out pass times. One of which was listening to some man named Tom Lehrer. Constantly. As far as annoyance went, it wasn't the worst thing that John could be doing so the detective allowed it. He did play the violin at 'ungodly' hours of the morning so he really didn't have the grounds for complaint. That didn't mean, however; that he had to _listen _to the sounds that bashed against his ears. Instead, he blocked his ears against the racket the same way he did when ever Anderson was in the room, only difference is that it does block out the annoyance where as nothing seemed to be able to block out that idiot masquerading as a forensic detective. The soldiers soft chuckles bounced off the walls as his good leg tapped in time with the music. The taller man cast his eyes over to the other, he had listened to this at least a dozen times during the week and yet he still seemed to find it funny. The detectives interest and curiosity were sufficiently piqued for him to decide to find out what the doctor found so funny. He carefully let the music flow freely into his mind.

_About a maid I'll sing a song,  
><em>_Sing rickety-tickety-tin,  
>About a maid I'll sing a song<br>Who didn't have her family  
>only did she do them wrong,<br>She did ev'ryone of them in, them in,  
>She did ev'ryone of them in.<em>

The detective rolled his eyes. _great. An Irish folk song, I thought John had better than this_. Despite his opinions on his flatmates taste in music, Sherlock allowed the song to continue into his mind.

_One morning in a fit of pique,  
>Sing rickety-tickety-tin,<br>One morning in a fit of pique,  
>She drowned her father creek<br>in the water tasted bad for a week,  
>And we had to make do with gin, with gin,<br>We had to make do with gin._

The detective froze for a second. _No…I must have heard that wrong. _Then the second voice jumped in. _Of course you didn't. Now shush._ Sherlock complied with the voice, almost eager for the next verse.

_Her mother she could never stand,  
>Sing rickety-tickety-tin,<br>Her mother she cold never stand,  
>And so a cyanide soup she planned.<br>The mother died with a spoon in her hand,  
>And her face in a hideous grin, a grin,<br>Her face in a hideous grin._

The detectives eyes narrowed fractionally. _This is beginning to sound vaguely familiar…_

_She set her sister's hair on fire, _  
><em>Sing rickety-tickety-tin,<em>  
><em>She set her sister's hair on fire,<em>  
><em>And as the smoke and flame rose high'r,<em>  
><em>Danced around the funeral pyre,<em>  
><em>Playin' a violin, -olin,<em>  
><em>Playin' a violin.<em>

The tall male could only listen as the song continued.

_She weighted her brother down with stones,  
>Rickety-tickety-tin,<br>She weighted her brother down with stones,  
>And sent him off to Davy Jones<br>they ever found were some bones,  
>And occasional pieces of skin, of skin,<br>Occasional pieces of skin._

…_no. it couldn't be…_

_One day when she had nothing to do,  
>Sing rickety-tickety-tin,<br>One day when she had nothing to do,  
>She cut her baby brother in two,<br>And served him up as an Irish stew,  
>And invited the neighbours in, -bors in,<br>Invited the neighbours in._

Sherlocks' mind whizzed as the song continued it's narrative, growing increasingly suspicious of this 'maid'.

_And when at last the police came by,  
>Sing rickety-tickety-tin,<br>And when at last the police came by,  
>Her little pranks she did not deny,<br>To do so she would have had to lie,And lying,  
>she knew, was a sin, a sin,<br>__Lying, she knew, was a sin._

'John,' he called over to the shorter man. 'Pass me my phone.' The soldier looked at him.

'No, get it yourself.' Not having the time to argue, the detective stood fluently and grasped his phone, already dialling the number. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard the last verse play.

_My tragic tale, I won't prolong,  
>Rickety-tickety-tin,<br>My tragic tale I won't prolong,  
>And if you do not enjoy the song,<br>You've yourselves to blame if it's too long,  
>You should never have let me begin, begin,<br>You should never have let me begin._

The phone rung four times before a sweet woman's voice answered,'Sherlock! How nice to hear from you.' The detective grimaced slightly as his emotions shook the bars of the dark dank cell he had locked them in before speaking.  
>'Irene, my dear, who the hell have you been talking to?<p>

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><p><strong>AN<strong>- well, I hoped you enjoyed it. Please R&R ;)

B  
>x<p> 


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